


A Handsome Man

by passionate_crimes



Series: Allusions and Daydreams [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Greek Mythology Allusions, M/M, Voyeurism, like seriously that's all this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2047767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passionate_crimes/pseuds/passionate_crimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was at twelve years old that Sherlock threw his anthology of Greek mythology against the wall of his bedroom and never picked it back up. Too many errors. He could twist a paranoid father eating his children into making sense, or even a kidnapped girl controlling the seasons, but a goose seducing a young woman?<br/>Seemed illogical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Handsome Man

When he’s feeling dramatic, Sherlock likes to compare himself to Penelope.

He’s aware, of course, that the two of them have nearly nothing in common, but it does make him feel better when he wallows in loneliness.

After all, the woe, and misery of having to be away from a lover for so long, certainly that is a connection enough, isn’t it? Nevermind that Penelope waited loyally, patiently for twenty years, while it has been only ten days since he’s seen John, and in that time Sherlock thinks he may drop dead; not to mention Odysseus left for a ten year long war, and was presumed dead, while John has just been busy and unable to sneak away. The kinship is still there, waiting, worrying, suffering, loving.

Tonight, however, that doesn’t matter, because John will be there. He’ll come by after dinner, and can stay the night.

Already Sherlock has forgotten the hopelessness of the Ithacan wife, and is humming a new tune, making sure everything is presentable for his lover’s visit. He’s even more excited, because he has a plan for tonight. One that he won’t tell John, of course, because the other would only laugh at him, or maybe give him a strange look, and refuse.

Which Sherlock doesn’t believe is fair. His inquiry is perfectly natural, and there is no harm done with watching oneself make love; it’s not as if he’s filming it.

-

First, of course, he has to procure a tall mirror. There is one already, hung against the door of the bathroom, but it seems like a Sisyphean feat, to remove it from its screws, screw it into the bedroom wall, then put it back in its rightful place the following morning.

No, it will be much easier all around to just buy a new mirror.

As he wanders the store, he watches as a young couple reunite behind the counter, both teenagers. The girl is petite, curly, golden hair, a red vest makes it obvious that she works here. With her carefully applied mascara, and accessories of dangling earrings and tingling bracelets, she looks like she belongs anywhere but a hardware store.

The boy is hardly taller than her, still hasn’t hit his final growth spurt, is wearing the latest fashion fad of skinny jeans, with a belt uselessly around his waist, and a jacket that is at least two sizes too big for him. The only thing not up to date is his hair, the style of which Sherlock thinks was never popular with anyone under the age of thirty-five. But on the sight of him, the girl smiles, and approaches him with a dreamy look. The boy returns it without a thought.

They’re intimate, but only just starting at it. It’s obvious by the way they seem embarrassed by each other’s bodies, glancing over the other with red cheeks. Seeing someone clothed but knowing just what they look like underneath. The boy especially, watching the girl’s every movement, caressing her curves with adoring eyes, looking like a sailor trapped in a siren’s spell.

He and John have just barely come from that point in their relationship. When they’d first started making love, it was so careful and shy, almost fragile: not as if either believed the other could break (after all they’d been through, that would never be the case), but more that they thought if they moved too hard, kissed too passionately, they would awaken and be alone once more. It must have been what Pygmalion felt when he first touched the warm flesh of his Galatea. The morning after their first night together had been the first and only time Sherlock had seen John blush and stammer, and they both had danced around each other, seeing their clothes but only imagining the flesh and body underneath.

The girl giggles now, turning away, while the boy’s eyes follow her with a self-conscious smile. They must think this is only the awkwardness of the first time, it is only that they have lost their virginity that they feel so giddy and confused. As they grow older and acquire new lovers, they will become casual and suave about sex, they must be thinking, hoping.

The poor things, Sherlock thinks, as he finally finds a mirror that suits his purposes, and a supervisor appears to scold the two and drive them apart, the naive Cupid and Psyche.

-

After the mirror is purchased and taken back  into the flat (Mrs Hudson is passing through and looks surprised by it, but she’s long since learned not to question whatever Sherlock brings home), he takes it up to his room, where just that morning he took off the large poster of the periodic table, for use of this, and experiments with it. Hanging it somewhere, and then lying on the bed, looking to see the reflection.

No, too far to the right, change it.

Now it’s too high, he can’t see himself. Perhaps if he flips it…

No, now he can only see his face.

It takes several tries, but finally he succeeds in the outcome he was working for: when he lies down on the bed, he only needs to glance over to see his entire profile. With this done, Sherlock stands, smirking, and goes off to finish the rest of the preparations for his lover’s arrival.

-

When it nears the time John promised to be in by, Sherlock remembers his relation to Penelope. The two of them waiting expectantly for their love to return home, feeling almost hopeless.

Of course, Sherlock does not have a dozen suitors he must dissuade, nor will John appear to him disguised as a beggar. But it’s the sentiment that counts, isn’t it?

And his worry is all for naught, because at five minutes to six, the doorbell buzzes, with the sound duration typical of John.

Sherlock rushes downstairs then, throwing open the door and grinning widely at the other, who hasn’t even taken his hand off the buzzer yet. There is a moment of silence, where the two men face each other with small, hesitant smiles, looking each other over (tense shoulders, has been having trouble in the marriage (but when have they not); slammed a cupboard shut on his finger that morning; had a tuna sandwich for lunch). Before long, Sherlock can’t stand the distance anymore and grabs John by his lapels, pulling him into the building.

They both engage in a desperate kiss, both of them pouring out all of their emotions of missing the other, how awful it had been to be away. It’s more effective than talking, anyway.

Finally, John pulls away, and offers an apologetic smile. Sherlock can never figure out what he seems to be apologizing for. The broken kiss? His prolonged absence? Or the situation of their relationship?

Either way, Sherlock forgives him, and takes his hands with a warm smile, leading him into the flat.

The dinner is simple, as it always is.

Takeaway, given that Sherlock can’t cook, and John doesn’t want to waste a single moment that could be spent kissing Sherlock. So they sit, John straddled over Sherlock’s lap, snogging passionately while they wait for the pizza to arrive.

When it’s eaten, John moves to his respective chair, and Sherlock goes to play the violin.

As he places the bow under his chin, the two men glance at each other; the emotion in the other’s eyes makes them both pause, and Sherlock has to remember why he’s holding the instrument before he finally begins to play.

-

They never outwardly say they love each other. They can’t, it would ruin everything about them. Certainly they both know it, each of them has caught the other in the middle of a loving glance, but to say it would be to admit defeat.

Instead, they tease each other. See how many creative ways they can avoid the question while answering it fully. Sherlock is winning. John is sore about it.

“Do you love me?” John asks tonight, sitting in his chair, a glazed smile on his face as Sherlock plays him a new composition.

Sherlock pauses, and while John wishes that it’s to think of an answer, they both know it’s only for dramatic effect.

“I would go to the depths of hell, soothe the demons to sleep, and charm the devil himself, all just to see you one final time,” he answers, grinning a smile that is half proud, half sincere, and he continues playing.

“And do you love me?” Sherlock finally asks, his smile dropping into a serious expression as he finishes, still holding the instrument to his chin.

Here there’s another pause, and Sherlock grins as he watches the gears desperately turn in John’s head, trying to come up with an equally eloquent answer.

“I would suffer through daily torture, be torn to shreds, only to wake up anew and go through the pain once more, if only to give you happiness.”

Sherlock smiles proudly, setting his instrument down at that soliloquy. He isn’t sure which answer he prefers: those heartfelt, loving ones, or the ones where John gapes and struggles for minutes, his mouth forming the forbidden affirmative, in the end only able to smile bashfully.

The violin serves as their foreplay; they always are in too much of a hurry to do much else in that field. They both are silent, listening to the melodic, erotic sound until arousal and impatience gets the better of them.

Tonight it's John who first breaks, as it usually is. He jumps up from his chair and lunges at Sherlock, his eyes wild and hungry--a complete contrast compared to the gentle care and delicacy he has when he takes the bow and violin from Sherlock's hand to set it on the table (once John had thrown the instrument to the floor in his excitement, which had made Sherlock so distressed and angry that nothing more had happened that night, and John learned his lesson immediately).

Undressing John is perhaps the most arousing thing Sherlock has ever done. It’s the thrill, of slowly unravelling him, button by button, knowing precisely what lays under every inch of cloth, every mole and scar, before it is revealed in the dull lamp light.

Now, he pulls John (or does John pull him?) into the bedroom, desperately kissing the other. He’s so distracted by John’s mouth and body that he doesn’t notice his own clothes being shucked off his body, which he regards a bit in surprise, but doesn’t particularly care. Likewise, John is so preoccupied with undressing Sherlock that he doesn’t seem to notice the absence of the usual periodic table on the wall, and the replacement mirror.

John drags them both onto the bed, at the foot, with Sherlock lying on his back, and his feet still planted on the floor. The way John is kissing him and touching him, it’s obvious he wishes to make love right here, but Sherlock squirms away and shakes his head.

“Up here,” he says breathlessly, moving up to the pillows. John gives him a confused look, but is obviously too aroused to truly care, and he to scrambles up to where Sherlock is and resumes his attentions. As he kisses down Sherlock’s neck and body, Sherlock turns his head to the mirror, his heart pounding in excitement.

-

It is as perfect as Sherlock thought it would be.

He watches as John’s body moves to kiss him, arch into him, ravish him. _Oh God._ Then his own body tangles his legs around John’s waist, and he sees his lips form an ‘O’ and gasps, his eyes already half-closed with pleasure. This new perspective--seeing every inch of John’s profile, from his leg’s muscles tensing as he continually loses footing in the soft sheets, to the trembling of his arms, to the small, subtle movements of his spine as he moves against him--is absolutely intoxicating, to watch themselves intertwine and transform.

Each sight is accompanied with the feeling of John rocking into him, the animalistic pleasure that is lust, love, hot and beautiful and burning; the combination of two senses’ delight increases the ardor tenfold, makes him dizzy.

After a few moments, he watches in the mirror as John turns towards his gaze. Their eyes lock in the glass, and Sherlock hears, sees, as well as feels the rumbling, breathless laugh it brings.

Carefully, never once breaking his stride, John moves his hand and draws Sherlock’s chin to face him, their eyes now locking in the flesh.

“Look towards me, Narcissus,” he says, then bends down to kiss Sherlock with warm, loving lips.

-

Afterwards, they’re silent, at least as they untangle themselves and pull the covers around each other, panting and waiting to come down from their respective highs. Sherlock slips out only a few minutes later to turn off the light, and he hears John chuckle behind him. He glances back.

“Do you think you’re pretty, now?” he asks, laughter still in his voice.

Sherlock grins in return, flipping off the switch and leaving the room in soft moonlight. “If you say I am, I can start a revolution and make you the most powerful man in Britain,” he says, his teeth shining in the dark.

Another piece of laughter, softer now, like a small chorus. “I’d prefer the most beautiful man to fall in love with me.”

Sherlock climbs back into the bed. “He already has.” John laughs loudly at that, and Sherlock loves it.

Their eyes adjust to the dark a few moments later, and they find each other in bed once more, Sherlock curling into John, resting on his chest. For just a moment, they’re silent, settling into sleep, when Sherlock glances up. “Do you love me?” he asks.

John is quiet for so long, Sherlock at first thinks he’s fallen asleep. “If you were killed…I’d get vengeance for you, drag your killer’s body around his home fifty times until I couldn’t anymore…they’d have to drag you away from me to bury you.”

Sherlock smiles warmly at that, feeling his heart soar, although he can’t help a teasing response. “You wouldn’t let them bury me? And you think I’m kinky for wanting to watch ourselves.”

John laughs sleepily again. “I just cannot imagine a world where I couldn’t see your face.”

For once, Sherlock is left speechless, unsure of anything he could say, and instead kisses his lips, shuts his eyes and squeezes him tight. John gives him a small squeeze back, although it is much weaker, and Sherlock listens to his lover’s heartbeat, and the breathing that soon turns into the snores of Morpheus.

Tomorrow, John will have to go. They’ll have to say goodbye, pretending that it won’t break their hearts.

And Sherlock will sit at his loom, with his Ithacan sister, and sew his tapestry, tear it apart, and rebuild it every day, as he waits for his love to return from Calypso.

But for now, the seas are calm. John is in his arms, and beyond the walls of Troy, the disgraced lovers sleep peacefully.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading my ramblings! This basically was just an experiment to see how many Greek allusions I could put into a fic. Any place where they say something really weird is an allusion, it's a bit hard to work something as archaic as ancient Greece into a modern setting  
> The title is from a poem by Sappho, an ancient Greek poet


End file.
